by Mark Pryor
“Sounds like sage advice.”
Pottgen gave him that broad smile again. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”
“I suppose so.” If force of personality counts for anything, you’ll be just fine, Hugo thought. “Anything else that might help me?”
“I don’t know. You haven’t really said what you need help with.”
“True, and forgive the coyness; it’s by necessity not choice. Has Helen Hancock talked about run-ins with anyone? Sometimes famous authors have stalkers, or people who think they’ve been put in a book against their will. Anything like that?”
“Not that she’s mentioned to me or the others, as far as I know.”
“Do you know someone called Andrew Baxter?”
He studied her closely for a reaction but her face gave nothing away. “No, I don’t think so. Who is that?”
“Someone from the hotel. Where are you all living, by the way?”
“I’m renting a studio apartment,” Pottgen said. “The guys are sharing a place about two blocks from me, a one-bedroom. I gather Mike won the toss for the bedroom and Ambrósio has the couch, which he barely fits on.”
“Big guy?”
“Six three and must be two-fifty. When he told me he used to play ‘football,’ I had assumed the American kind.”
“Is he doing an MFA too?”
“We all are. A precondition to applying for the course.”
“Makes sense. Well, thanks for your time.” He slid a business card to her. “If you think of anything, call me. And would you ask Mr. Silva to step in here?”
“Sure thing.” She stood and put out her hand, squeezing his hard again, her head tilted and a strand of brown hair falling over one eye. “You need anything else, just let me know.”
As he sat in the quiet of the conference room, Hugo’s phone buzzed in his pocket. When he answered, it was Lieutenant Lerens.
“Camille, you have some news?”
“Yes. Paul Jameson identified the store where the camera was purchased. Took him a lot of phone calls, but he did it.”
“Excellent, tell him well done.”
“You want to guess who bought it, or you want me to tell you?” Hugo smiled at the humor in her voice. “You know I like making you guess.”
“Then I’ll go with the disappointingly obvious answer. Andrew Baxter.”
“Correct.”
Hugo thought for a moment. “You know, I’ve visited a few of those stores and, as you might expect, they have great surveillance footage of everyone inside and out. Can you see if they do? Could be that someone’s waiting in the car outside; we know there’s another person involved.”
“Because Baxter’s dead?”
“Right. And assuming the spy camera and his murder are connected, which we should.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe he just owed someone money, got himself killed that way. We don’t know for sure that the surveillance and his murder are linked.”
“That’s possible,” Hugo said. “But usually loan sharks rough you up a little first. They want their money, and killing the client puts a stop to any chance of that.”
“Good point.”
“We can look at both angles, but in the meantime can you have Paul get any footage they may have?”
“Will do. You being productive?”
“Moderately,” Hugo said. “I’m talking to Hancock’s students.”
“Enjoy. Let me know if you come up with anything.”
“Will do.” Hugo looked up as the door to the conference room opened. Pottgen stuck her head into the room.
“Mike’s in the restroom but will be right here. Ambrósio, apparently, didn’t want to wait around. Took off about ten minutes ago.”
“Do you know where to?”
“No clue, but when I see him I’ll tell him to call you.”
“Please do,” said Hugo. “I’d appreciate that.”
CHAPTER TEN
Hugo introduced himself and studied Michael Rice as they sat. In his midthirties, Hugo guessed, he looked like a rugby player acting the part of a writer. He was solidly built, with a square jaw and barrel chest, but didn’t look to be carrying any fat on him. He wore a worn tweed jacket over a plain white shirt. His corduroy pants looked new, as did his small leather bag that might have contained a computer and, more likely, a few moleskin notebooks. He sat opposite Hugo and said nothing, just looked around a couple of times.
No nerves at all, Hugo thought, before saying, “You’re probably wondering why I’m here instead of Helen Hancock.”
“I am.”
“There was an incident at the hotel. I can’t really tell you anything more, but I’ve been tasked with letting you guys know and talking to you about her.”
“Is she OK?”
“She’s fine. Just some . . .” Hugo cast about for the right words, suddenly aware he was talking to a writer. “I guess you could say weirdness going on with her, but she’s not hurt or anything like that.”
“Glad to hear it; you being here had us worried.”
Hugo nodded to show he understood. “So, let me ask you, did you meet her for the first time here, in Paris?”
“We talked a couple of times on the phone, as part of the final application process, but yes, I didn’t meet her until I got here.”
“You think she’s a good teacher?”
Rice pursed his lips as he considered the question. “Yes, I’d say so.”
“That’s it?” Hugo pressed.
Rice shrugged. “I’ll be honest, Mr. Marston. I am a fairly good writer. I’m also an extremely fast writer. I can put out a book in a month, two months at the most. There’s a lot of money to be made by authors who are prolific and writing in the romance genre. I’m not here to learn how to become the next James Joyce or Ernest Hemingway. I want to know the tricks of the trade, and her trade specifically.” He gave a wry smile. “In my limited experience, a lot of writers don’t share that approach, don’t approve of it.”
“Does Helen Hancock?”
“She doesn’t seem to mind. I mean, it’s not like we’ve explicitly had that conversation, but I’d think it’d be obvious how I’m looking at things.” He shrugged. “She’s a pragmatist, too, you know. She knows as well as anyone that it’s a business as well as a creative endeavor. Almost half of what we talk about is the publishing side, how editors and agents work, marketing and sales, that kind of thing.”
“I see. In your dealings with her, have you come across anyone who might dislike her?”
“She’s a famous author. I imagine they all have people who don’t like them, probably people who think they know them but don’t.”
“Disgruntled fans, you mean.”
“I guess. . . . But in her case specifically, I really don’t know of anyone.”
“And she gets on well with Ms. Pottgen and Mr. Silva?”
“Yes. We all get along fine.” He leaned forward. “Can you tell me more of what this is about? If I’m supposed to be helping you with your inquiry, it’d be good to know what you’re inquiring about.”
“I’m not too sure myself,” Hugo said. “Are you familiar with the Sorbonne Hotel?”
“In what way? I mean, I’ve heard of it, of course. Only been there a couple of times.”
“On this trip?”
“Yes. Helen is staying there; she wanted us all to come over and have a drink together in the bar the first night we got to Paris.”
“And the other time?”
“I met with her for tea. They do a fancy English spread, different types of tea, scones, cucumber sandwiches, that sort of thing.”
“Did she do that for the others?”
Rice laughed gently. “What, invite them for tea and then make them pay?”
Hugo smiled in return. “As you said, it’s a business as well as a creative endeavor. Do you know anyone who works there?”
“No.”
“Does the name Andrew Baxter mean anything to you?�
�
“No. Who is he?”
“An employee there. OK, last question.”
“Fire away.”
“Do you know if it’s common for writers to steal each other’s work?”
“I’ve not been in the business long,” Rice said. “But I doubt it. I assume you’re referring to budding writers like me stealing from successful authors?”
“Well, that’s one possibility, but I was wondering more generally if there was much to gain from it.”
“I don’t think so. Most people write on computers, so it’d be easy for someone to show when they wrote a passage, or an entire book. And, speaking of computers, they’ve made plagiarism much easier to uncover.” He frowned in thought. “That said, there have been a few cases in recent years, and possibly some that weren’t discovered. Is that what’s going on with Helen?”
“No idea,” Hugo said truthfully. “It’s one of several possibilities.” He took a card from his pocket and handed it to Rice. “If anything crosses your mind, something you feel I should know about, you’ll give me a call?”
“Sure,” Rice said, with another wry smile. “Not sure what that would be, but if I see it I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks. I gather Mr. Silva left the building.”
“No, he’s here. Went outside to take a phone call is all. Want me to send him in?”
“Please.” They shook hands, and as Hugo watched Rice leave, he let his mind wander over the reasons that either he or Buzzy Pottgen might have to spy on Helen Hancock. He’d forgotten to ask Pottgen about writers stealing other writers’ work, and he had hesitated before asking Rice, but if either one had put the spy camera in place, they’d know by now it’d been discovered.
Hugo had already searched on the Internet for examples of plagiarism in the fiction world, and he had come up with more than he’d expected. Some had been newcomers to the business stealing from older or more established writers, but some had also been well-known authors plucking entire passages from more obscure works. And Hugo knew, as Rice had indicated, that he was only reading about the ones who’d been caught.
But plagiarism didn’t seem the most likely explanation for the spy camera. For Rice and Pottgen it would be hard to pull off unless they knew someone who worked at the hotel, and not just knew them but trusted them and could somehow get them to go along with it. A lover, maybe? But he’d confirmed with each one that they’d only been in Paris a week, hardly time to capture someone’s heart to that degree, even if Pottgen did vibrate with sexuality. Rice, not so much.
They were also too obvious as suspects, not to mention the fact that they already had open access to Hancock. No, Hugo thought, surely they have no need to go to such extremes, and they have too much to lose if caught.
Which meant that if this was about stealing her work, it was someone at the hotel, someone who wasn’t Andrew Baxter.
And if it wasn’t about plagiarism, Hugo knew that blackmail was the most obvious motive.
Ambrósio Silva was, indeed, a big guy, but he carried his weight lightly and Hugo would’ve guessed him to be a former athlete if he hadn’t already known. He was also a perfect fit for the word affable.
“Come in, Mr. Silva; please sit.” Hugo put out a hand. “I’m Hugo Marston; I work at the US Embassy.”
“So I gather, very cool.” Silva settled into a chair. “What’s going on?”
“I just had a few questions about your course instructor, Helen Hancock.”
“Is she in trouble?”
“Not at all,” Hugo reassured him. “But there’s been an odd incident at the hotel where she’s staying. I’m not at liberty to go into the details, but I’m helping the Paris police with their inquiries. Are you familiar with the hotel?”
“Sure, the Sorbonne. Very fancy. Too much so for my blood, but she’s certainly earned it.”
“How old are you, Mr. Silva?”
“Please, Ambrósio. I’m thirty-eight.” He smiled, showing white teeth. “I’ve been told I look a little younger. I call it the ‘Azorean discount.’”
“Lucky man. Well, I don’t want to keep you longer than I need to, so can you tell me if you know a man by the name of Andrew Baxter?”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell,” Silva said. “Should I know him?”
“No, not necessarily. You said you’ve not spent much time at the Sorbonne Hotel.”
“Right. A beer costs about thirty euros there, so unless someone else is paying I steer clear.”
“And you’ve known Helen Hancock for how long?”
“I met her after applying for the course. We talked on the phone once or twice, then actually met for the first time here.”
“You get on well?”
“Absolutely. A nice lady and I feel like I’m learning a lot.”
“Have you ever been published?” Hugo asked.
“Not yet. I finished three novels that went nowhere, couldn’t even get an agent, and that’s when I decided to go the MFA route. Right now I’m halfway through my fourth novel, which is a lot better than the first three. At least I hope so.”
“Is it romance?”
“It definitely has elements of romance, yes. Most of the MFA programs . . .” He searched for the right words. “Let’s just say that they don’t necessarily promote the various genres of writing. They are most proud when their graduates produce works of literary fiction, rather than mysteries, romance, or horror. Personally, I’m a big fan of Sherlock Holmes; read every single one of them. Brilliant solutions to ingenious mysteries. Agatha Christie, too.”
“We have that in common, then.”
“Glad to hear it. But not many instructors at the MFA programs would name them as favorites if you asked.”
“Snobbery in the book world, imagine that,” Hugo said with a smile.
“Your words, not mine. But yeah, you’re not far wrong.”
“So help me with this, then. If you’re being steered toward literary fiction, why would you want to take this course?”
Silva smiled, then looked down as he spoke. “Appropriately, it comes down to three French words.”
“Go on.”
“Can you guess?” He looked at Hugo, waiting for the penny to drop. It did.
“Ah,” Hugo said. “Nom de plume. You write literary fiction under your name, while at the same time producing genre works under a pen name.”
“Precisely. Did you know that romance is the bestselling category of books? Beats everything hands down.”
“I think I’d heard that.”
“Right. So you can see why I’d want to invest in this course, learning from the best. The others might not be honest about the commercial side of this, but it’s a reality. Well, Mike would ’fess up to it.”
“He did already,” Hugo said.
“Another reason to be here is that we all want Helen’s name on our books. A cover blurb and endorsement from her could be a huge boost to our careers. And before all that, being here and working with Helen will help us get an agent, probably, and a publishing deal for our books.”
“Makes perfect sense to me,” Hugo said, handing Silva a business card. “Well, I don’t really have any more questions right now, but if anything occurs to you that might be relevant, please give me a call.”
As soon as he stepped outside the library, Hugo called Helen Hancock.
“Can you e-mail me a copy of the manuscript you’re working on right now?” he asked.
“I never let anyone see a work in progress.”
“It’s not for my reading pleasure,” Hugo said. “I want to set up a repeating search of the Internet to see if any parts of the book show up. To do that, I need to have the manuscript to sample.”
“How do I know it won’t get leaked somehow?”
“Helen, I’m trying to help you here. There are dozens of ways to establish what you wrote and when, so if someone does leak it or steal it from now on, we can easily prove whose work it is. And I give you my word, I’ll d
o all I can to keep every word confidential.”
“How much of a guarantee is that?” She sounded dubious.
“Look, when we run the searches, your name won’t be associated with any of the content we look for. And I’ll make sure one tech, and one only, does the work. After I’ve sworn him to secrecy.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“No, I’m trying to take your concerns seriously.”
“Well. I’m not happy about this; it feels like another violation of my privacy.”
Hugo’s patience was running thin, and he heard the frustration in his own voice. “Helen, listen to me. I will do all I can to keep your work safe, but without it I have no idea why someone was filming you. I want to be able to confirm this angle or rule it out, and I can’t do that unless I have the manuscript.”
A long pause, then Hancock said, “Fine. I’ll e-mail it to you. Just you and one other person are allowed to see it.”
“Fine, thank—”
“And if you read it, please remember it’s called a ‘work in progress’ for a reason; it’s a long way from the finished, polished book.”
“I don’t even plan on reading it,” Hugo said. “How about I wait until I can buy it?”
“Fine. OK, I’ll trust you. Hold on a second.” Hugo heard a clunk, then silence for a full minute before she came back on the line. “I used the e-mail address on the business card you gave me, is that right?”
“Perfect, thank you. I’ll let you know the second we get any matches on a search, but I’m not expecting to.”
“Well, I certainly hope not,” she said. “But do let me know.”
Hugo wandered along the busy Rue de l’Université, slower than the businesspeople en route to their next appointment and chattering on their phones, slower even than the tourists who drifted along in pairs and in packs, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to point something out or take a photo. Hugo found it amusing, and occasionally irritating, how visitors to Paris would spend so much time recording the buildings and monuments of the city for later viewing, perversely oblivious to the swirl of Parisians all around them. For Hugo, it was the people slotted into this city that made it so beautiful, their talent for cooking, for drinking, for making art and writing books. And not just their talent but their passion for something greater than themselves, be that a Baudelaire poem, a performance at the Bataclan theater, or a perfectly fluffy cheese soufflé.
